Page 58 of Every Christmas Eve
If only I could find the words to tell him this was far too little, far too late.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lou
NOW
Three Days to Christmas Eve
When Cordelia Heaney unexpectedly knocks on my yellow door at Katie’s Cottage late Sunday morning, it’s almost like history repeating itself. Only this time, she has no idea how exhausted, confused and ever so slightly hungover I am from the night before when Ben and I had dinner.
‘Seriously, Lou, how bloody gorgeous is this cottage?’ she cries after almost squeezing me to death on the doorstep. ‘I’m jealous, I can’t lie. Every time I come back home, I’m more and more convinced of how I want to find my proper place in the world back here on Irish soil. I’m thirty-nine years old, so it’s really time I knew what I was doing with my life.’
I think she’s selling herself short. Cordelia has long been admired for living the kind of carefree, nomadic life that many others yearn for.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ I tell her. ‘You’re a highlysought-after freelance chef, you’ve lived and worked in some of the most beautiful cities in the world, and you’ve a family who are immensely proud of you. Not to mention a niece who idolises you too. She’s been counting the days until you get here.’
Cordelia doesn’t seem convinced.
‘I get all that and I appreciate every bit of it, but you know when something isn’t filling your soul any more, no matter who you meet or what you do?’ she says.
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Anyhow, I’ll figure it out,’ she tells me. ‘Christmas always makes me nostalgic, so I’ll soon snap out of it or finally give myself the kick in the ass I need to do something about it.’
I go to make a pot of coffee, then set it down on the table with some shortbread from Buds and Beans and a small selection of chocolate brownies. Two empty wine glasses sit on the draining board. Grey ashes from last night’s turf fire lie in the grate. If Cordelia hadn’t unexpectedly called in when she did, I’d probably have given in and curled up on the sofa, licking my wounds.
‘Hopefully you’ll get to relax over the holidays, once the embers of the party die down,’ I say to her. ‘Sometimes, stepping out of your own world and letting your brain switch off can spark the best ideas.’
She nods in agreement as she indulges in one of my American-influenced brownies.
‘I’ve beenlongingfor a walk by Lough Beg to clear my head for weeks now,’ she tells me. Then she stops mid-chew,as if she’s studying my face properly for the first time since she got here. ‘Oh my goodness, Lou, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look exhausted.’
I was hoping she wouldn’t notice my red eyes. As much as I was thrilled to see her, I was partly hoping she wouldn’t stay very long so I could crawl under a duvet and flick through Netflix, even though I was already showered and dressed, doing my best to plod on and face the day ahead.
But the conversation from the night before has been replaying again and again in my mind like an old movie. As I struggle with how I’m feeling about what he told me, I can still hear every syllable he said as clearly as if he were sitting here now. I was lost for words at first.
After our heart-stopping kiss on the street outside the restaurant, we’d cuddled in the back seat of the taxi all the way home while I sang along in cosy bliss to Shakin’ Stevens on the radio, wondering what my younger self would have made of the evening we’d just had.
‘Say something, Lou,’ Ben had pleaded with me when he broke the news not long after we’d got to the cottage.
I thought it was a joke at first. I think I may have even laughed, but the way he held both my hands and looked into my eyes brought me up sharp. He was very serious. It was true.
Everything had been heading in the direction we’d both dreamed of until he’d started to confess to something that I know I’ve no right to be upset about deep down.
But he’d lied to me. And about her, of all people.
‘Olivia Major,’ I repeated. I let go of his hands and staredinto the dancing orange and yellow flames from where we were sitting on a rug by the fire. ‘You and Olivia? Together? You spent years saying you couldn’t have a long-distance relationship with me, yet you went the distance with her as soon as I was off the scene? Ben! How could you?’
‘I’m sorry!’
‘But I asked you last week if you’d ever seen her since and you said no,’ I reminded him. ‘You looked horrified at the very idea, yet now you’re telling me that only days after we said goodbye you were with her – not once but lots of times. That you were acouple. You were in a proper relationship. How? Why?’
He closed his eyes.
‘Revenge, maybe?’ he said, his voice dropping to not much more than a whisper. ‘That, mixed with a spurge of hot-blooded hurt and a young, busted ego after that last horrible scene at the party, I guess.’
I was puzzled.
